Proving Them Right in All the Wrong Ways
by loveadubdub
Summary: He wants to hate her, but all she did was tell him what he already knows. He's not worth the conversation. He's not worth anything, and he knows it because people have been telling him his whole life... Angsty, not romantic!


**PROVING THEM RIGHT IN ALL THE WRONG WAYS**

Disclaimer: Obviously, nothing belongs to me.

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He thinks maybe he's going fucking crazy.

For the past two weeks, he's been caught up in this shit, and he can't think of anything else. He was able to ignore it for a little while, but it just keeps creeping back up, and he feels like he's about two steps away from blowing his own brains out just to get away from it.

Fuck, all this gay ass glee shit has turned him into a fucking drama queen.

He's not down with suicide, but whatever. This shit is serious, and he's going seriously fucking crazy. Not only that, but he thinks he's thisclose to becoming an alcoholic, and that pisses him off because he knows he doesn't have the patience or the attention span to get through twelve fucking steps. So that's why he puts down the bottle of JD and picks up a can of Natty Light. What? That shit's not real alcohol, so shut up.

This summer blows. Like seriously. He hates everything about it- up to and including the fact that he's got to work some lame ass job at fucking Sheets and Things and doesn't even _see _his fucking paycheck. Half of it goes to pay those Vocal Adrenaline fuckers for their tires, and the other half goes to unpaid hospital bills for some kid he doesn't even get to see.

Shit. He opens another can and takes a swig.

He's not going to think about it anymore, he's _not. _That kid is the whole reason his life is one big shithole in the first place. For months, he did nothing but cater to Quinn and pay her bills and go to fucking McDonald's at 11:30 at night to get her milkshakes. That sucked enough, but what has even got to show for it? He doesn't have Quinn, and he _doesn't _have the baby.

So screw this.

Someone's knocking on his door and he wants them to fuck off, but he knows that if he yells at his mom to go away one more time, she's going to go fucking psycho and start like taking his phone and his Xbox and shit. And not like he gives a crap if she takes the phone right now because he isn't speaking to anyone anyway, but that Xbox is the only thing keeping him alive. So he kicks the half empty case of beer under his bed and opens the door.

His little sister is standing there looking annoying as fuck just like she always does. She looks up at him like she's thinking of something and then says, "You smell gross."

"You look gross," he shoots back, not at all caring that he sounds like a nine year old.

She doesn't seem to care about his comeback and pushes under his arm and into his room where she immediately starts digging through the mess on his dresser. "Stop touching my shit!" he snaps, grabbing her arm and moving her away.

"I'm looking for my CD."

"Your Disney shit ain't in here, now get the fuck out of my room."

She glares at him, obviously not nearly as intimidated as he wants her to be. "It's not Disney," she says hatefully. "And you're a douche."

He stops for a second, not sure if he's proud or pissed that she just called him a douche. Part of him wants to high-five her and teach her some new words, but another part wants to pick her scrawny ass up and literally throw her down the stairs. He has a feeling if he does either of those things, though, that his mom will take away a whole lot more than the Xbox.

Like probably his life.

"Get out," he says again, and he doesn't care if he's a little bit too rough when he yanks her to the door and shoves her out.

He hears her yelling something from the other side of the door, but he doesn't care. He just turns his stereo on full blast and reaches for the open can of Natty. It takes approximately ten seconds for him to finish it and approximately thirty for someone to bang on his door again. He knows it's his mom this time because the whole door shakes, and his brat little sister ain't that strong.

Luckily, he smashes the can and tosses it into the trash just a moment before she takes it upon herself to push the door open and come in uninvited. Fucking no locks on the fucking door. He wishes now more than ever that he'd never done what he'd done with Kristen Meyer that pissed his mom off so badly that she put a new knob on his door and effectively eliminated any sort of privacy he might have in this hellhole. Kristen Meyer isn't even that hot, fuck.

"Turn it _down!" _she yells, reaching over and just taking care of it by herself by turning the whole damn thing off. "And stop tormenting your sister."

"_She's _tormenting _me!" _He knows it's a pointless defense because his mom has always and _will _always take his sister's side over his. She rolls her eyes just to prove his point.

"Get up and take a shower," she orders. "And then clean this room up!"

She's pissed, but whatever. He just sort of glares into space until she leaves, and when she's out of sight and earshot, he mumbles exactly what was going through his mind the whole time she was reaming him out, which is something along the lines of, _'Fuck you, leave me the fuck alone, get the fuck out of my room, and fucking little fucking brat is a little fucking brat.' _

He knows better than to say any of that to her face.

His mom's been on his shit for months now, ever since he told her Quinn had to move in because she was carrying his bastard spawn. He didn't phrase it exactly like that, but it didn't matter. His mom immediately broke down in tears and asked him how he could be so 'irresponsible' and told him that he was 'throwing his life away' and a bunch of other bullshit. He tuned her out until she finally told him that Quinn could move in but that there were ground rules and a bunch of other crap. Like him sleeping on the couch was really going to help anything. Like things could possibly get worse. Like Quinn would even let him touch her.

Fucking Quinn. Fuck her.

He grabs another can of beer before he heads down the hall to the bathroom for the shower that his mom ordered and that, okay, he knows he needs. He locks the door to the bathroom out of spite, strips off the clothes he's been in for the past day and a half, and then gets in. Normal people don't drink beer in the shower, but fuck that, he's not normal. Fuck all this bullshit.

_None _of it's normal.

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Everyone tells her not to bother. And by everyone, she _means e_veryone.

Finn tells her to just leave it alone and that she doesn't need to get involved. Quinn tells her it's none of her damn business. Santana tells her to "leave him the fuck alone." Kurt tells her to stop sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong. Mr. Schuester even tells her that things'll cool off in a little while.

But she can't help it. She's captain of New Directions, and when one of their members is skipping every single summer practice, it _is _her business. It's not like they're asking for a ton of his time or anything- one hour every two weeks is hardly an inconvenience. There's no excuse to miss all the time.

This is what she tells the group, and they mostly all roll their eyes. Santana glares at her like she wants to punch her in the face, and Finn just frowns and looks at the ground. She doesn't care, though. They aren't going to change her mind. If Noah Puckerman wants out of New Directions, he needs to at least have the decency to tell them.

And if he isn't going to do that on his own, she's going to force him to.

After practice, Santana corners her as she's gathering up her things and glares at her like she wants to kill her. She tries not to be intimidated as she stands up and pulls her bag over her shoulder. Finn has gone to get the car so that she doesn't have to walk all the way through the parking lot in the rain. She wishes he was still here because he's the only one who would defend her, she knows.

"Can I help you, Santana?" she asks, raising her eyebrows in an attempt to show that she isn't frightened, even though she secretly keeps having flashes of her nose being broken.

"Leave him alone," Santana says seriously. "He doesn't need you nosing into his business right now, so don't you dare fucking try it."

"He doesn't have any right to blow us off with no explanation."

"You don't know _shit_ about it," Santana snaps. "Stay the fuck out of it."

She can definitely tell why he and Santana are caught up in their majorly dysfunctional love/hate _whatever. _They're both bullies with limited vocabularies. They're probably soul mates.

"Thank you for your advice, Santana," she says primly, pulling her bag higher onto her shoulder. "But you have no control over what I choose to do as captain of this team."

And then, before she can get punched, she hurries out of the school and into the rain where Finn is waiting with the car.

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He gets a text from Santana asking him to come over, and he does because he's bored and horny and knows that if he doesn't get out of the house soon, he's going to slit his wrists or something equally as stupid.

Her parents aren't home because they're in Cleveland for some conference her mom's speaking at or something. Whatever, he doesn't care about the details. He only cares that the house is empty and that there's always an abundance of tequila there. It's because she's Mexican or some shit (_Argentine, you racist asshole! _her bitchy little voice snaps in his head). Whatever.

"Sup?" He lifts his head in a half-nod of greeting when she opens the door, and then he walks right in and heads for the liquor cabinet, grabbing one of the many bottles. Her parents are cool as fuck. They don't like him all that much because they know what he does to their daughter on a regular basis, but they don't ever say shit when the food and the booze is missing. Remembering this, he grabs some peanut butter out of the overhead cabinet and starts eating it straight from the jar.

"You're going to be sick. That's disgusting." Santana looks seriously grossed out as he dips his finger into the peanut butter and uses it to chase a swig of tequila he takes straight from the bottle.

He ignores her. "You wanna get in the hot tub?"

She's already dressed for it. Of course she is. Santana spends all school year in a Cheerios uniform and all summer in a bikini. He isn't even sure if she _owns _real clothes. Doesn't matter. He likes her best when she's wearing nothing.

"Where've you been? Nobody's heard from you in, like, a month."

That's bullshit, and she knows it. People have _heard _from him. He just hasn't been around much. He sort of hates everyone, and he doesn't see the point in pretending otherwise.

"Work," he says simply, shrugging like he doesn't give a fuck.

"Rachel's on the fucking warpath."

He rolls his eyes. "About what?"

"About you missing glee all the time."

"Fuck that." He takes another swig from the bottle.

"Everyone told her to mind her own damn business, but you know she's a bitch. She's, like, determined to track you down and shit."

"Fuck her."

"What's going on with you anyway?" Santana has got her hands on her hips and is looking at him expectantly like she's his goddamn confidante or some shit. Fuck that, he's not down for the BFF club bullshit.

"Nothing," he lies easily, taking one more drink and then holding the bottle out to her. "Let's go fuck."

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"Rachel, _please _just leave it alone."

Finn is looking at her like he's prepared to start begging or something. His eyes are wide and might even be worried. She doesn't miss the look of exasperation that's lurking there, though.

"I just want to know if he still plans on being a part of glee," she argues. "If he doesn't, then we need to start working on recruiting a replacement because you _know_ we can't compete with just eleven people."

"Rach, the next competition isn't until winter. We've got months to get a replacement if we need to. Just don't worry about it, okay?"

She knows Finn doesn't understand the seriousness of the situation because glee isn't as important to him as it is to her. It isn't as important to _anyone _as it is to her. She knows that, and she gets that. But the fact of the matter is glee means _everything _to her, and she isn't going to let it be destroyed just because one of their members is apparently throwing a hissy fit of drunken proportions.

She knows that's what's going on because everyone's whispering about it. She doesn't know why they all insist on coddling someone who is just drowning in a pool of self-induced misery. She personally has no patience for it, and she can't understand why anyone else does, either.

"He's either going to start showing up for rehearsal, or he's going to tell us that he's done for good," she says flatly. "It's not fair to any of the rest of us when one person decides they simply can't be bothered all summer long."

"He's been through a lot of stuff lately," Finn says quietly. "With the baby and everything. Just let him have his time."

"Quinn's been through just as much if not more," she argues right back. "And _she _makes it to rehearsal. And anyway, why are you defending him?" Does he not remember that the 'baby and everything' was almost his?

"I'm not," Finn sighs. "I just know how he is, and I know that you trying to talk to him isn't going to accomplish anything."

"Maybe not, but I plan on trying anyway."

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He's throwing rocks at a pyramid of empty Natty Light cans and knocking them down one by one. He doesn't care if they're rolling down the bank and littering the lake. Whatever.

Fuck Quinn. _Ping!_

Fuck his mom. _Ping!_

Fuck Shelby Corcoran. _Ping!_

Fuck glee. _Ping!_

Fuck his whole fucking life. _Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!_

He's out of cans, so he pops open another one and decides to start building another pyramid. This cheap ass beer isn't even nasty when you're so wasted you can't even feel your own fucking teeth.

Sweet.

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She finds him at the lake.

She knows to look there because she goes to his house and his little sister answers the door and tells her that's where he goes every night. She sort of expects that he's lied to his family and that he's nowhere near the lake, but surprisingly, he's at least honest about his whereabouts. It's nearly eight o'clock, and there's really nobody else around. The picnics and swimmers have all disbanded for the day, and he's there alone, sitting on the bank with a whole case of beer beside him.

"Having fun?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest as she stands behind him.

He cranes his neck and dips his head backwards to view his visitor. "Tons," he says dully. "Want one?" He holds up the can in offering as he raises his eyebrows.

"You could go to jail if you get caught," she says seriously, walking around so that she can stand in front of him and keep his neck from snapping.

"They don't send you to jail," he says lazily, taking a long drink from his can. "They threaten to tell your parents, and then they take your shit and drink it themselves." He says this in a way that lets her know it wouldn't be the first time he's been caught.

Deciding not to waste her time debating the consequences of underage drinking with him, she takes a different approach. "You haven't been at glee."

"Nope."

He's infuriating, and she wants to rip the can straight out of his hand and throw it. "Why not?"

"Cause I don't want to be."

"Are you quitting?"

He shrugs.

"So you're just planning to spend your whole summer out here getting drunk alone?"

"Yep."

She can't help the glare that forms on her face, and she crosses her arms angrily. "You're pathetic."

"Fuck you." He glares right back at her, and it's the most emotion she's seen since the conversation started. "Why do you fucking care?"

"Because this isn't fair to the rest of us, and you know it."

"You think I give a shit about what's fair to you guys? I don't give a fuck." He finishes off his beer and throws the can to the side before reaching for another one.

She decides to take a gentler approach, knowing he's just going to keep getting more and more defensive. "I know things haven't been easy since everything happened." She can't make herself actually bring up the baby because knowing where that baby is right now hurts her, too. "But you can't just drink yourself into oblivion and ignore the rest of the world, Noah."

He looks at her like he hates her, and maybe he does. "You don't know _shit _about anything, so get your fucking nose out of my business."

It sounds almost identical to what Santana told her two days ago.

"You should try talking about it," she says as reasonably as possible. "It might help."

"I don't need your psychoanalytical bullshit."

She's getting seriously annoyed, and she has to work very hard at not rolling her eyes. "Look, I'm just trying to help-"

"You wanna help?" he asks, pushing himself into a standing position. "Suck my fucking dick or something. Because this shit?" He waves his hand in her direction. "Not helpful."

"You're really a jerk, you know that?"

He rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in the air sarcastically. "Congratulations, you finally got a fucking clue!"

She tries not to let herself be upset. She knows that he's drunk and that he's obviously having some sort of psychological meltdown. Still, it hurts a little bit because he hasn't really been mean to her in awhile. She shouldn't be surprised.

"You're going to end up hurting yourself," she tells him, struggling to keep her composure calm.

"Oh, my god, shut _up!" _He stares at her wide-eyed like he wants to strangle her. "Why are you even here?"

"I came here," she says tightly, "because I was _trying _to be a good friend and-"

"We are not _friends!" _he shouts, and she's so shocked by the tone that she just stops. "You are fucking psychotic, you talk too goddamn much, and I can't fucking _stand _you! Get it through your head!"

She stares at him. His words hurt worse than they should, and she's almost shocked to feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She is _not _going to cry. Not over this idiot who's standing in the middle of a pile of empty beer cans and looks like he hasn't changed clothes in three days.

Maybe they're _not _friends. Maybe they never have been. She's known him her entire life, and he's never been nice to her, save a few times when he was trying to use her for one thing or another. It's strange because she's known him longer than any of his "friends" have, and she probably knows more about him than any of them do, too. They've been at the same Synagogue since they were babies. Their parents are friends. You learn a lot about somebody when your parents are friends. You hear things that the kids at school aren't really privy to.

And that's what causes her to say the cruelest, most vindictive thing she can think of.

"You're going to end up just like your father," she says evenly, narrowing her eyes and not even caring about the way his automatically change. "A useless, pathetic _drunk _who never amounts to anything. You're not even worth the conversation I was trying to have with you."

She turns to walk away, but she doesn't get two steps before he's grabbed her arm and is spinning her back around. She can feel his fingers digging into her flesh as he looks hatefully at her and practically snarls. "If you _ever _say some shit like that to me again…"

"What?" she challenges, not looking away from him even though she _is_ a little bit afraid. "Are you going to hit me?"

He lets go of her immediately, shoving her away as he takes his own step back. He is literally shaking as he runs a hand over his head and looks away from her. He looks like he might be sick, and she half expects him to throw up right there. He draws in a shaky breath, though, and then glances back her.

"Stay the fuck away from me," he mumbles, and she stands there as he walks past her back to his truck. He leaves all the beer and everything right where he left it.

She doesn't move until she hears him drive away, and then she sits down and cries into her hands for an hour.

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The next day, he gets fired from Sheets and Things for fighting.

The minute he walks into work, Finn sucker punches him again for the second time in six months. Last time he had it coming, though. He won't fucking deny that. But this time? This time, this shit's not about Finn. It doesn't have anything to do with him, and really, he can just fuck off.

So he hits him back, and then they go fully at it until both of them have got bloody lips and bruised knuckles. They only stop because Terri Schuester comes over screaming that she's going to call the cops.

He knows what the fight's about, and he knows why Finn is pissed. He doesn't give a shit. As far as he's concerned, Finn and his stupid fucking girlfriend can both go to fucking hell. He's so _over _this bullshit that he can't even stand it.

They're both fired immediately, but neither one of them cares. Two aprons are thrown on the floor, and they're both out of that shit heap within minutes. Once they're outside, he briefly considers throwing his own sucker punch, but he's not a little bitch, so he doesn't.

"Tell her to stay the fuck away from me," he says instead. It's the last thing he said to her last night, but it's probably worth repeating.

Finn glares at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands. "You're such an asshole!"

He ignores the question and wipes furiously at the blood he can still taste in his mouth. "That crazy bitch needs to stay out of other people's business."

"Don't call her that!"

"She thinks she knows so goddamn much! She needs to shut her fucking mouth! She doesn't know me!"

Some people in the parking lot have stopped to stare, but neither of them cares much. Finn looks like maybe he's about to punch him again, but he doesn't. Instead, he gets that stupid hurt puppy look on his face and says, "_I _know you, man. You're better than this! Just stop it, dude."

He ignores him and walks off toward his truck. Finn can go fuck himself. He doesn't know shit, either. He doesn't know all the shit that went down in his house when he as a kid. Finn was only around for the birthday parties and the other times when everything was happy and normal. He doesn't know what it was really like.

Like when his dad used to get so wasted that he'd start using people as punching bags. Or when his mom was working three jobs just to try and support them because that bastard couldn't even be bothered to go _look _for a job while his wife was eight months pregnant. Or any of the times his mom would get fed up and kick the asshole out only to let him come back home when he showed up with cheap flowers from the gas station. Or when he was nine years old and ended up with a black eye because he was scared to see his baby sister get in trouble for accidentally spilling her juice on the carpet. Or when he was eleven and the asshole left for good while his mom was downstairs having a fucking psychotic batshit episode complete with screaming, crying, and throwing anything she could get her hands on. Or when his four year old sister peeked in his bedroom with wide eyes full of tears and said she was scared, so he let her climb in bed with him and played with her hair until she fell asleep and their mom finally stopped crying.

Finn wasn't around for any of that shit.

He doesn't even notice the tears in his eyes until he feels one hit his cheek. _Fuck. _He is not going to fucking cry over some fuckwit asshole who isn't worth a piece of a shit. But it's not even about that. It's about the fact that now _he's _the fuckwit asshole, and his kid is going to grow up thinking he doesn't give a shit about her and doesn't want her.

When that's _not fucking true_.

He never had a chance. No one ever gave him a fucking _chance _to want her or take care of her or treat her like a real man's supposed to treat his kids. Nobody asked his opinion on what should happen. Quinn did for like a second, but she didn't really give a shit what he thought. She was the only one who had say in that, and it fucking pisses him off because that was his damn baby, too! But no one cares about that. Not one single fucking person.

He knows he's a fuck up. And he knows he's a shitty boyfriend. He knows he's a shitty friend, too. But so what, that doesn't automatically mean he'd be a shitty dad. He knows everything _not _to do. He's pretty fucking sure that if given the chance, he'd be pretty awesome at taking care of a kid. But he doesn't know because no one gives a shit about him and _his_ feelings.

He drives aimlessly because he knows that if he goes home, his mom'll start bitching him out about why he isn't at work. And if he tells her he got fired, she'll start screeching about how he's still so irresponsible and all this other bullshit, and he just can't deal with it right now. So he just drives and drives with no destination.

He doesn't know why he ends up at Rachel fucking Berry's house, but he does. He doesn't stop, though, because Finn's car is in the driveway, and anyway, he doesn't know what he'd say to her anyway. He doesn't know if he's even really pissed off at her. He's mostly just mad that she knows shit he doesn't want her to know. He sort of thought maybe she might, but now he knows she does. And he hates that.

And he hates that she's right, too.

He _isn't _worth the conversation she was trying to have. He isn't worth anything, and he knows that because people have been fucking telling him that his whole damn life. The only person who's ever thought otherwise is his mom, and now he's managed to break _her _fucking heart, too. All over a baby that he doesn't even have any fucking rights to. It's bullshit.

He finally stops when gets to the lake. It's daylight outside and crowded and not at all the deserted quiet fucking nighttime shit that he likes about it. There are people everywhere having cookouts and crap and kids running around in their swimsuits. It's like a fucking middle-American postcard or something.

Without thinking, he reaches under his seat for the emergency bottle of Jack he keeps hidden. He finds it easily and is kind of pissed off to see that it's half-empty. He doesn't even remember opening it. Whatever, something's better than nothing.

"_A pathetic, useless drunk who never amounts to anything."_

Those fucking words roll through his head, and he feels sick. He doesn't know why he's letting some chick get at him like that, but really he's not stupid, he knows it's way more than that. She wasn't saying anything he was already scared shitless of anyway.

_Fuck, _he doesn't know what's _wrong _with him.

This isn't who he wants to be, and he's a damn liar if he acts like he doesn't care. He knows something's fucked up inside of him and that whatever it is has just gotten a billion times worse since Quinn had that damn baby, gave her away, and handed him a pen to sign away any chance he ever had of actually doing something right for once. He just wants to hide it all away and act like it's not there, but fucking _Rachel Berry _and her big fucking mouth has to put it all out there like she knows something even he doesn't.

He's _not _going to turn into this. He's not going to give anyone the pleasure of proving them right- least of all that fucking asshole who gave him his first beer when he was nine fucking years old.

He slams his truck into reverse and pulls over to a trash can. Without even thinking about it, he flings the half-empty bottle into the trash and grabs his phone from the seat beside him. He needs to apologize, and he knows it, but he's not about that shit. Instead, he types out a single word and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the right name.

"_thanks"_

He doesn't expect a response because she's probably pissed as hell, and he kind of thinks she has a right to be. He wasn't exactly pleasant or anything last night- not that she was, either, but whatever, he totally started it.

Maybe he'll start his own twelve step program.

Step one: Stop being a total dick.

He's just pulled back onto the main road when he hears his phone beep, and he picks it up, really kind of shocked that she's actually replied. Finn probably stole her phone and is texting back to tell him to leave her the fuck alone or some other bullshit. But when he flips it open, he knows it's really her. She's the only person he knows who texts with fucking perfect spelling and punctuation.

"_I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, and it's not true. You're not going to be like that."_

Texting and driving = Death. He's seen the fucking commercial. Whatever.

"_we're cool"_

Her fingers must be crazy fast because like three seconds later, he gets her response.

"_See you Saturday?"_

"_k"_

And then that's it. They don't have some fucking drawn-out Lifetime bullshit conversation. For once in her life, she can tell when to just leave well enough alone, and he isn't going to antagonize her or do any other shit. It's just over, and his agreement to show up on Saturday has put it to fucking rest.

He gets back home a little while later after stopping off at the Wendy's drive-thru to get a Frosty. His sister's in the living room watching _Hannah fucking Montana_, and she jumps up to hug him the second he hands her the extra one he got for her. He doesn't even shove her off or tell her to turn the channel or anything. He just tugs on her hair a little bit and goes to find his mom. She's working the night shift, so she's home and in the kitchen cutting up a tomato to make his sister a sandwich, he's sure. The knife stills when he comes in, and she looks at him like she's totally wondering what the hell he's doing home.

"Noah, why aren't you at work?"

He doesn't answer her. He sets his drink on the counter and just goes over to her and hugs her because he hasn't in way too fucking long, and that's all he wants in the world right now. He can tell she's shocked, but a second later she stops what she's doing and gently pets his head as he hides his face in her shoulder.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

A million and fifteen things are fucking _wrong, _but he doesn't feel like talking about them. Besides, most the shit that's wrong with him will just cause her to break down in tears anyway. So he just squeezes her a little tighter and mumbles into her shoulder. "Mom, I'm sorry."

"For what? What's happened?"

"For a bunch of shit."

She doesn't yell at him for cussing or even pry anymore. She just lets him stay like that for a couple of minutes and rubs circles on his back just like she used to when he was a little kid and was sick. He won't say how unbelievably _good _it feels.

And he knows that it doesn't matter how many people expect him to be a total fuck up and failure at life because there's at least one person (maybe two) who know he doesn't have to be.

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A/N: Well, that was a nice dose of angst! Thank you for reading, and reviews are divine!


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